


Open Your Mouth

by nothingislittle



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cigarettes, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Okay maybe a little plot, POV John Watson, Pining John, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sherlock - Freeform, Shotgunning, Smoking, Smoking Kink, cigarette kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-08
Updated: 2014-05-08
Packaged: 2018-01-23 23:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1583696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingislittle/pseuds/nothingislittle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You want it, don’t you? You want to breathe it in, want to feel it burning your lungs, want a bit of me,” Sherlock lifted his left hand and traced John’s bottom lip with his thumb, “inside of you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Your Mouth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allonsys_girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/gifts).



> Dedicated to Katie, the John to my Sherlock, for betaing, encouraging, being my Martin senpai and being an absolutely fabulous friend.

“Open your mouth.”

John didn’t know how he’d got there, on a darkened balcony in the middle of the night, his head bracketed on either side by pale, sinewy arms. Sherlock’s shining lips were only centimeters from his own and ostentatious techno music pulsed just beyond the patio doors and he couldn’t think, couldn’t move —   _Where am I? How did this happen?_

\--

The party had something to do with a case — as did every ridiculous thing they’ve ever done — Sherlock had explained days earlier, and would be held in some garish ballroom on an upper floor of a West End skyscraper.

“It’s black tie, John.”

“Oh god.”

“Yes, I know you’re preference is for cavorting about London in whatever sort of dumpy, fuzz-covered jumper you can dig out of the bottom of your closet, but if you don’t get a tuxedo for this case, then you’re not coming.”

John’s objection wasn’t necessarily to suit itself but to the chore of finding one to rent as he didn’t currently own a tux. He swallowed his undoubtedly pointless protests and retrieved his mobile to find a shop and make an appointment.

\--

When John returned to 221B — a vinyl garment bag slung over his shoulder — it was to the stale smell of cigarette smoke wafting down the staircase.

He was thinking that he’d been quite pleased at how he looked in the slim cut, black fabric (although the tie felt a bit like choking) when the putrid smell of it came over him. Sherlock must have expected him to be gone longer — of the things John allowed him to get away with, smoking in the flat wasn’t on the list. Shooting the wall, maybe. Smoking, absolutely _never_.

Entering the sitting room, John found him immediately. He was draped over the sofa like bloody Cleopatra, shirtless, one leg hitched over the arm, the other spread wide, his blue silk robe pooled about him on the cushions, hanging over one bare, pale shoulder. His striped, cotton pyjama pants had slipped over his sharp hip bones, dipping low enough that just the very beginning of lusciously dark, curly hair peeked over the waistband.

John had been prepared to scold Sherlock for smoking in the flat — for smoking at all — but when he saw Sherlock splayed out and his perfect mouth wrapped around the end of a cigarette, positively _suckling_ at it, he simply stopped in place and stared. There was no undignified jaw drop or frantic, stunned blinking, no dramatic movements of any kind, just all the air evaporating from John’s lungs, his mouth suddenly cotton dry and his entire body, frozen and still, statuesque, his mind sending the urgent message to stay as still as possible, to not miss one piece of information about the scene in front of him.

Sherlock drew on the cigarette for an age, for the rest of time. John felt like his red lips were pursed around that filter for hours and months and centuries and only after that did he pull off, draw up his jaw and pucker his lips into a perfect, miniscule keyhole, blowing out the smoke in one steady stream of air. Possibly it was the most beautiful thing John had ever witnessed. Vast deserts of blowing sand and mountainsides covered in lush pine held no comparison.

“Back already?”

He couldn’t answer. John was still and stoic by all appearances but on the inside, gigantic, pounding waves were crashing over and over the tiny fortress in his mind where he kept any feeling for Sherlock that strayed away from “flat mate” or “best friend.” The carefully constructed walls were quickly eroding as John stared at him, spread out like butter on toast.

John hated smoking, detested it, with the weight of all the medical knowledge his doctor’s brain carried. Even before medical school, before the army, he’d hated the entire concept: the smoke, the burning at the back of his throat around his mates, the smell that clung to his grandfather when he came back inside with his pipe, the yellow, peeling wallpaper at the shop down from his first apartment where the proprietor chain smoked from open to close. It was disgusting.

But _Sherlock_ smoking.

Suddenly the rules had changed.

It wasn’t surprising, really. Sherlock was so beautiful John was sure he could subvert the morality of entire congregations, nations, planets. God, he was being truly ridiculous, now. John shook his head, to clear it, to restore himself to motion.

“Aren’t you going to demand I put it out?” Sherlock drawled. “‘No smoking in the flat, Sherlock,” Sherlock imitated John so well it was alarming. He turned to John, defiantly puffing on the cigarette again and blowing in his direction, but when he took a moment to deduce John, his expression changed from obstinant to surprised — and then to smug. He looked John up and down and only then did John notice how tight his jeans felt and realized, flushing deeply red, that he was obviously, painfully hard.

“ _Fascinating_.” Sherlock smirked, licked his lips and put the cigarette to his mouth again. John cleared his throat.

“Put it out, _now_.”

Before Sherlock could say anything, he turned on his heel and headed up the stairs. Slamming the door to his room, he fell directly to his knees, jerking viciously at his belt, desperate to get off before the smell of smoke left his nostrils. He fucked his hand until he came, the whole time picturing Sherlock’s perfect mouth swathed around a cigarette.

\--

The party was two nights later and John made damned sure he didn’t have to see Sherlock until then. Extra hours at the surgery, coming home late, leaving early, and it worked. He didn’t see Sherlock once.

 _Don’t say anything, it’ll be fine._ John was relying on his characteristic stoicism to get over this bump in their relationship. Truly he didn’t relish the thought of having a conversation with Sherlock that started with something like “Care to explain why you became demonstrably aroused in response to my smoking habits?” especially given that _I don’t exactly know_ was the answer _._

John rode the elevator to the eighteenth floor with a lump in his throat, nervous to see Sherlock again, about how he would act. There were two options, John thought. Either he’d ignore what happened altogether or tease John relentlessly, smiling all the while like the devil himself — John pictured that smile and suddenly had to adjust himself in his tight tuxedo trousers. _Jesus_.

The tiny compartment in his mind in which he’d stuffed every dangerous thing he’d ever felt for Sherlock had burst open when he brought himself off to the image of Sherlock, stretched languidly over the sofa, smoking. He’d been lost in thought the majority of the pas three days, daydreaming about anything that had to do with Sherlock — tiny things, like his long eyelashes, the freckles on his back, his iliac crest, which had peaked so tantalizingly over his pyjama bottom. John shook his head. The elevator was passing floor 12 and he had to get ahold of himself or he’d be walking into a crowded party with an embarrassingly prominent erection.

The doors opened directly into the ballroom and as soon as they parted, the car was filled with pulsating music and flashing, multicolored lights. John squinted and walked in, pushing through crowds of people. The pace was as packed as it was lavishly decorated.

The entire room was draped in red and gold bunting and non-descript house music pulsed with a heavy bass beat throughout at an obnoxious volume. The space held no tables or chairs but there were a great number of gauche candelabras spackled with sparkling gold paint littered about the room that the guests milled about, all in black tie apparel and horribly cliche costume masques with feathers and rhinestones.

There was absolutely no logical way for John to know where Sherlock was yet he knew exactly where to find him. It was almost always like that between the two of them. Drawn together like magnets — like destiny.

John dodged and dipped around partygoers, moving toward the left and finding Sherlock in the corner, leaning against the bar there, elbow resting on the ledge, hip cocked out and scanning the room intently, gaze burning through each person he scrutinized in turn. When his eyes landed on John, a smile that could only be described as indecent crept across Sherlock's face and transformed it into something positively _lecherous._  John lost his footing watching it, tripping over his suddenly wooden feet, stumbling forward. He knew he had to look away or he’d never make it across the room in one piece or without bursting into flames.

Staring intently at his feet, willing them to walk normally, he cursed himself for being so easily affected, so clumsy, while Sherlock still leaned with an easy grace, impossibly cool and perfect. John would never be be graceful like that, but he could be near someone who was. That was enough.

By the time John reached the bar, Sherlock’s smile had faded and John wondered for just a moment if he’d imagined it.

“Hullo.” John smiled ruefully at him, it couldn’t be helped. The amount of affection he felt for the daft bastard before him was unending and it bubbled to the surface now. This was something that positively _infuriated_ John about Sherlock, that he felt so many different things for him, sometimes all at once: friendly affection, fatherly protectiveness, something almost brotherly, and now — he shifted minutely — a decidedly inconvenient attraction.

_Focus on the case, focus, focus._

“Ah, there you are.”

John nodded toward him, forcing himself to look at the rest of the room, leaning against the bar, trying desperately to look cool, or at least collected.

“So,” John cleared his throat. “What have we got then?”

“We’re standing in the middle of the birthday party for the CEO of Tesco.”

John snorted. “Really?”

“Yes, I know, it’ll all a bit—”

“Bizarre?”

“I was going to say eccentric, but … quite.”

John looked over at Sherlock, still surveying the crowd, and it was a mistake. Sherlock was always beautiful, that was certain, but normally John observed it as a passing fact, something objective he could appreciate, like a painting or a marble sculpture. But Sherlock now, standing in profile, backlit by the golden light of the candelabra behind him, his porcelain skin colored with a dancing rainbow of lights — John simply couldn’t breathe. Sherlock’s chest was rising and falling lightly, slowly, mouth slightly parted, and John was drawn into it, staring at his lips, the bow on the top, the plumpness of the bottom, tracing them with his eyes, feeling as if he was spiraling, falling into the inside of Sherlock’s impeccable mouth. Then he spoke, jarring John. He jerked his head away from Sherlock, hoping the staring was unnoticed. He didn’t see the smirk playing at the corner of the detective’s mouth.

“The CEO’s wife received a letter last week in which the sender threatened to kill her at this party. We have an off duty detective inspector as a decoy wandering around the party wearing one of those dastardly masks, so if the culprit tries anything, the intended victim will be safe. However, Lestrade has tasked me, and therefore you, to find them before that becomes necessary.”

“Right. What should I do?”

Sherlock looked right at John then, eyes afire, making John gulp comically, like a cartoon, like a caricature of the man he usually is.

“Walk around the perimeter of the ballroom and look for anyone or anything that strikes you as suspicious.” John nodded. “And then … come find me.” Sherlock’s voice was octaves deeper than John had ever heard it, rich like chocolate, like velvet, and he strode away without a backward glance.

Slowly John came back to himself. What the fuck was going on? He felt like a bloody teenager with stars in his eyes — or hearts, come to that. It was disgusting, embarrassing. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, forcing himself to shift into Capt. John Watson headspace.

Within seconds of circling the party, John had decided this assignment was nothing but busy work, a fool’s errand. There was nothing John could deduce in this endless, milling sea of masked humanity. Probably Sherlock could suss out each and every person’s occupation, place of origin and peculiar sexual proclivities but John H. Watson simply saw mask, mask, waiter, mask.

Twice around the perimeter was quite enough, thank you, and when John found absolutely nothing suspicious, he gave up and went searching for Sherlock, prepared to dress him down for inventing a task to essentially get him out of the way. Honestly. If Sherlock didn’t want him there, he certainly didn’t have to be there. He could call up Sarah. Or Jeanette. Or … the one with the dog. Maybe he would just walk himself straight back over to Baker Street and buy some cigarettes of his own at Speedy’s given that he couldn’t shake the scent memory even at a party full different aromas, perfumes, colognes, appetizers, alcohol.

Searching futilely, John nearly gave it all up as a bad job and headed out, the craving for a cigarette nagging him insistently, which was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever experienced. He’d never even smoked so much as one and now he was craving it so badly he was about to abandon Sherlock in the middle of a case to buy a pack? Few things make John Watson as angry as feeling ridiculous and he felt bloody ludicrous at the moment. By the time the phone in his pocket buzzed, he was fuming. It was Sherlock, naturally, one simple word:

_Patio._  
_-SH_

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock could easily type 90 words per minute on a mobile yet insisted on this kind of brevity, which John found rather grating and obnoxious, especially now when all he could think about was smoke coiling through the air, the faint burning in the back of his throat, the scent of burning tobacco and paper and 1000 dangerous chemicals floating around him, clinging to every hair, every fiber of clothing.

Irritably, John picked his way through the crowd to the patio doors at the back of the ballroom, the handle barely peeking through the draped buting H hadn’t even noticed there was a patio during his perimeter checks. He slid open the door and slipped out into the chilly, windless air, the glass panel snapping shut behind him. It was a fairly small veranda and it was obvious the guests weren’t meant to be out here. Enough chairs for the entire ballroom were stacked and shoved up against the building to the right of the door, but one black folding chair had been set up right at the edge of the balcony, to the left, and in it sat Sherlock Holmes. He was slumped down with uncharacteristically bad posture, legs spread haphazardly, one foot up on the railing, his left hand resting high on his thigh, almost carelessly, while his right slowly raised toward his mouth, the cigarette between his long fingers sliding home between the plump lips. It was dark, but dammit if John didn’t immediately suck in all details. Sherlock was backlit again, this time by the city lights, and his perfect profile was in sharp relief as he blew smoke into the sky and it curled around his dark hair in the stillness.

John was immediately hard in his too-tight suit and frozen on the spot, the sight of Sherlock smoking, wearing a perfectly cut tuxedo, the bow tie undone and hanging unevenly about his neck, buttons open and his collarbone just barely visible — it was all too much. John couldn’t move. It was easily the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed.

“Ah. John.” Sherlock intoned between pulls. “How many times around the ballroom did it take you?”

Now John was angry — aroused and angry and didn’t that just sum up his entire relationship with this infuriating, gorgeous child of a man?

“Twice.”

“Oh really? Faster than I had expected. This is only my first.” He put the cigarette to his lips again, puffing and blowing the smoke _obscenely_. It was probably a perfectly normal way to smoke, John told himself, but he wasn’t in the position to be logical.

“Put that out.”

“No.” Puff, inhale, exhale. John saw him lick his lips this time and swallowed a gasp.

“Why are you out here taking a bloody smoke break when we’re supposed to be working on a case?”

Sherlock still hadn’t looked at John once, or moved at all but to pull on the end of the cigarette. He pushed on the railing and lifted the chair up on only two legs, bobbing like a school child bored at his desk. “Solved it.”

“What?”

“Solved it before you got here.” Sherlock shrugged as if the case were entirely inconsequential it incensed John. He stepped closer to Sherlock, trying to win at least a glance from him.

“So you’re telling me that you sent me to run circles round that ballroom in there for the last half hour for no reason at all?”

“Not no reason, John. I needed a moment to smoke without you scolding me. Although judging by your reaction now, you may no longer object.”

John flushed in the dark, still rock hard, and Sherlock deducing it all without so much as a look was mortifying. Sherlock puffed on the cigarette again and blew a steady stream of smoke into the air. John’s chest tightened. He wanted to taste it.

“What are you on about? I hate smoking.”

Sherlock snapped his head toward John at the same time he let his chair drop to the ground. The sound of the metal legs hitting the concrete floor rang over the abandoned terrace.

“Not entirely true, John.”

Sherlock stood, drew one last time on his cigarette and then dropped it, crushing the still burning ember under the heel of his patent leather lace-ups.

“In fact,” Sherlock pulled another cigarette from the from the breast pocket of his tuxedo jacket and put it to his lips. “From your reaction to me smoking in the flat three nights ago ...” he mumbled around the cigarette, retrieving a lighter and holding it to the end, breathing in while the tip ignited. He blew the smoke toward John, and John breathed as deeply as he could, wanting that air, the smoke that had been inside Sherlock to exist inside him as well. He wanted it like eating, like drinking. He had to have it. His mouth hung agape and he didn’t care.

“... and from the way you’re looking at me just now, I’d say you’re not only intrigued by the idea — your inarguably aroused by it.” Sherlock, still smoking, began to step closer to John and John, instinctively, backed away.

“So what is it, John? Is it my mouth around the cigarette? My lips pursed at the filter? Me sucking at it gently?”

It couldn’t be helped — John whimpered. Sherlock continued to advance, a lion and his prey, and John was helpless.

“Or is it the cigarette itself? The smoke billowing from my lungs, John? The tip burning bright red when I pull on it?” Sherlock did it now, closing his eyes while he drew the smoke into his lungs. John kept his open, helplessly drinking in Sherlock, his mouth, his throat, his lips, the entire act scorching fire up and down his body, the chilly night air long forgotten. John was sweating. He bumped up against the patio door, thankful for the fabric hanging in front of it on the other side.

Sherlock kept advancing until he was just in front of John, looming over him, smelling of London and of tobacco, of smoke and of want. John looked up into his ice blue eyes and licked his lips, lost, just lost for words, for movement, for any reaction beyond straining against himself to keep from tackling Sherlock to the ground and licking into his mouth to taste the bitterness, the heat.

“So what is it, John? Do you even know?”

He shook his head minutely, eyes glued to the face before him. Sherlock took one more step and put his arms on the glass at either side of John’s head, closing in on him, the cigarette in his fingers turning slowly to ash. John could hear the paper faintly crackling as it burned down just beyond his ear.

“You want it, don’t you? You want to breathe it in, want to feel it burning your lungs, want a bit of me,” Sherlock lifted his left hand and traced John’s bottom lip with his thumb, “inside of you.”

John swallowed thickly, floundering in unchartered territory, face overheated, cock pulsing and hard, a wet spot blooming on his pants, wedged up against his zipper, and the music of the brackish party pounding in his head through the sliding glass doors.

“Open your mouth.”

Logically, John was repulsed by the mere idea and his brain fought him. He answered automatically.

“No.”

“ _Open. Your. Mouth_.”

He could not make his body listen to reason, he wanted it so badly. Screwing his eyes shut he let his mouth drop open. Sherlock leaned in and John could feel heated breath ghosting over his tongue.

“Wider, John.”

John whined then, Sherlock’s voice so deep and so wide, it covered him like a blanket, enveloping his body and mind, wrapping him up and dragging him down, so quiet and low, not quite whispering, rumbling through them both. John let his jaw unhinge as Sherlock moved closer. His top lip — the damnable cupid’s bow — brushed against his own and John shivered.

“Look at me.” John wrenched his eyes open and saw nothing but Sherlock’s.

His entire body was straining toward Sherlock, hands fists at his sides, the smell of burning tickling his nose. Sherlock lifted the cigarette to his lips and drew on it, the tip flaring bright, illuminating both of their flushed faces.

“Now take a deep breath.” This time Sherlock did whisper, faint wisps of smoke escaping with his words, and when John started to inhale, Sherlock leaned until his lips were a hair away from John’s and slowly blew the smoke into his mouth. John breathed it in deeply, every bit he could manage, eyes locked with Sherlock the entire time, his lungs burning, his mouth hot and smokey, the pain in his throat urging him to cough but he resisted, breathed until Sherlock stopped and closed his mouth. Slowly John let the shared smoke escape his own, watching it swirl around Sherlock’s face and ending with a small cough and a tightness in his lungs and throat.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Sherlock was still whispering. His eyes were wide and stunned and suddenly he looked overwhelmed and childlike, as if he’d never expected John to let him go this far. For all his bravado John could see Sherlock had been acting the part and his apprehension pushed John past the point of rationality. He was desperate to encourage him. 

"Do it again." John groaned, pleading, palms pressed flat against the glass behind him, smudged with sweat and steam from his body heat. Sherlock's eyes widened, his mouth parted just so, the picture of surprise. Suddenly he was so unsure and hesitant. John pushed.

"Sherlock ... I _want_ it." John's voice was small, reluctant to admit this, but seeing the way those words transformed Sherlock's face from trepidatious to impish was absolutely worth the brief moment of shame.

He repeated the motion of drawing on his cigarette and positioning his lips over John's, but this time his left hand snaked down between their bodies and rested just next to John's straining cock. He opened his mouth to blow the smoke and when John breathed it in, Sherlock dragged the flat of his palm from the base to the very tip, pressing and squeezing gently at the head.

Between the smoke in his lungs and Sherlock's hand massaging into him, John was so light headed he swayed on the spot, exhaling the smoke in a huff. Sherlock flicked away his cigarette and grabbed at John's lapel with his right hand to keep him upright, his left still rubbing circles into John's throbbing prick.

John looked up and stared at Sherlock's delectable lips and thought he could come right then, the taste of smoke in his mouth, Sherlock's deft hand working him through his trousers, and those lips, red and swollen, so close to his own. He couldn’t be still any longer, reaching out with both hands he took ahold of Sherlock’s jaw and pressed their his mouths together, urgeing Sherlock's open, desperate to taste, licking his teeth and tongue to feel the heat, to taste the smoke and the fire.

Where his hand held John's lapel Sherlock pulled John up to his mouth, kissing him deeply and then shoved him back against the wall, his head hitting glass hard, making his ears ring. Sherlock pressed himself into John, his hand still between them where he began to rub John faster and fast until their kissing had devolved into John panting into Sherlock’s open mouth, working himself back into Sherlock’s palm, muffled growls rumbling deep in Sherlock’s chest. John could feel the vibrations against his own chest and the ferocity made John keen needily, high and young.

“ _John_.” Sherlock’s breath was in John’s mouth, smoky and mellow, and John couldn’t take it, the smell, the taste of him like this, he wouldn’t last long.

“Sherlock, st-stop,” John breathed, trying to pull away but there was no where to go, he was caught between the glass and Sherlock’s lithe body.

“No.” Sherlock growled. John didn’t understand where this man had come from, starting with it’s-all-transport and ending up here, on a dark terrace, biting John on the neck, and, oh god, he was really biting, John could feel the bruises forming up and down his throat while Sherlock positively gnawed on him.

“Sherlock, please, _fuck_ , please, give me a minute.”

“Why?” Whinging like a spoiled teenager, he moved up to John’s ear and bit at that too and John yelped.

“Because I’m going to, ah, I’m going to bloody come in my trousers if you don’t stop!”

Sherlock’s hand immediately stilled, although he didn’t pull it away, and he leaned back to look at John in the eyes.

“Really?”

 _What do you expect, attacking me like that,_ John thought, and outwardly the tips of his ears flushed pink. He nodded curtly, lips pursed, annoyed that Sherlock was looking at him like a fascinating subject, an experiment — _again_ — but Sherlock was completely unfazed. He bit at his lip, licking into his scar salaciously, slowly starting to rub at John’s cock again. John groaned and banged his head hard on the glass. Sherlock had absolutely no finesse in this area but his enthusiasm was … inspiring to say the least.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock ran his tongue over John’s bottom lip.

“I want to see it.”

“What?”

“Please, I want to see you, I want to watch your face when you come.”

John’s chest was heaving from the effort of not granting Sherlock’s wish right then, the pleading in his voice pulling at John, making him want to give over to the tightness in his abdomen, the pleasure coiling as Sherlock stroked him faster and faster, stars bursting behind his open eyes turning the London sky into a fireworks display. He had to stop this. He didn’t even own this suit. He pushed at Sherlock’s hands

“Sherlock, no—”

“John, please, I—”

“No, I don’t mean you can’t see, I mean I don’t fancy ruining a rented pair of trousers!”

Sherlock stopped and pulled back enough to separate their bodies. John felt cold and cursed himself for not purchasing his own tuxedo.

“So ... you don’t want to make a mess, is that it?”

John chuckled ruefully, catching his breath, feeling rather bereft without Sherlock touching him.

“Yeah, that’s it. Let’s … let’s just go back to the flat and—”

Sherlock was on his knees before John noticed he wasn’t before his eyes anymore.

“Sher — god, you’re fast. Shit.”

Sherlock already had John’s zipper open and was pulling John’s pants free. John was helpless to stop him, public balcony or not. Once it was free, Sherlock ran his lips softly over John’s cock, parting them slightly and letting just the very tip of his tongue glide around overheated flesh. When Sherlock slipped his plump lips over the head, John called out his name hoarsely.

The entire balcony still smelled faintly of smoke and as John sank slowly into Sherlock’s mouth, everything but the scent and the wet and the heat enveloping him faded away. Involuntarily, his hands lifted and sifted through Sherlock’s fuzzy curls, curling into fists, yanking at the hair by the root, pulling Sherlock up and back, sliding his mouth around John repeatedly. John felt Sherlock’s long fingers scrabble at his thighs, heard him gagging and choking but he couldn’t stop himself from pistoning in and out of that impossibly hot, wet, greedy mouth.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Sherlock, watching his prick disappear past his lips and down his throat and when Sherlock locked eyes with him, he couldn’t hold back any longer. John felt it surge through him like the smoke from Sherlock’s lungs, slowly and deliberately, coming into Sherlock’s throat just like Sherlock blew smoke into John’s and it was exquisite, perfect, John was nearly sobbing with the way Sherlock greedily sucked and pulled at his cock, drinking down everything John was pouring into him, desperate to have a bit John inside.

Sherlock suckled and mewled around John’s cock until John pushed him away from surfeit of sensation. John bent in half, hands on his thighs, breathing deeply, chest heaving, attempting to come back to himself as Sherlock fell forward on his hands and knees.

Once their breathing slowed, John straightened and tucked himself inside his pants and trousers, looking down at Sherlock who had pushed himself back and was sitting cross-legged, wincing slightly, and John could easily deduce why. John smiled and, after a beat, Sherlock smiled back. They chuckled lightly at each other, surprised and amused at their audacity — and at the utter lack of awkwardness between them despite the line they just crossed.

“Well,” John sniffed, “What about you, then?”

Sherlock stopped laughing and his eyes widened. “Me?”

“Have you got any more cigarettes?” John smiled lewdly, raising his eyebrows.

“Yes, almost an entire pack.”

“Light another one.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me at teapotsubtext.tumblr.com for updates ... and lots of pictures of Benedict Cumberbatch smoking.


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